


Your Sins Will Find You Out

by heartsandmuses



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dogs, Frank knows Matt is Daredevil, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Matt knows Frank knows Matt's Daredevil, Post Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-29
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:58:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7312264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartsandmuses/pseuds/heartsandmuses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had become something of a routine, Daredevil swooping in every time Frank was about to finish off a murderer or a rapist or a mob boss, to knock his weapon out of his hand and preach at him enough for Frank to sigh, half-frustrated half-resigned, and leave Matt to deal with the battered bodies. </p><p>Honestly, he was getting pretty tired of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Sins Will Find You Out

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't sure how to rate this, so to be on the safe side, I'm putting it down as M for swearing and violence.

   It had become something of a routine, Daredevil swooping in every time Frank was about to finish off a murderer or a rapist or a mob boss, to knock his weapon out of his hand and preach at him enough for Frank to sigh, half-frustrated half-resigned, and leave Matt to deal with the battered bodies.

   Honestly, he was getting pretty tired of it.

   “Oh, fuck, no,” Frank groaned, landing another punch to the mob enforcer’s face before easing up to scowl at Matt. The mob enforcer took the distraction of Daredevil’s arrival to try to get away, but Frank just dug his knee deeper into the guy’s solar plexus to stop the feeble attempt. “What the hell are you doing here?”

   It wasn’t even that he was surprised. He expected this, maybe not this time, but the next or the one after that. Matt’s annoying little habit of interrupting Frank just as he was getting to the good part of these late-night jaunts around Hell’s Kitchen was becoming more and more frequent. The fact that Frank even tried throwing Daredevil off his trail once or twice (unsuccessfully) just made him all the more tetchy about this whole thing.

   Frank thought that after the whole Nobu incident, with him essentially saving Matt’s life, Matt would find it in his forgiving Catholic self to grant Frank some leeway in his vigilantism.

   It didn’t happen like that at all.

   If anything, Matt doubled down on his efforts to prevent him from killing. Maybe he figured he ought to make up for allowing Frank to shoot those ninjas for him, although Frank never signed up to pay any penance for his actions. He certainly didn’t regret them.

   But at least Matt stopped threatening to have him arrested every time they saw each other.

   Matt must’ve smelled the copper tang of blood, felt the lingering touch of death in the air, heard one heartbeat much stronger and slower than the other. Felt something in the air displacement, maybe, but honestly Frank didn’t have a fucking clue how Matt knew this guy was one wrong look from an early grave, and even less so how Matt always found him.

   Matt pulled Frank off the mob enforcer by the back of his jacket and said, firmly, “That’s enough. I’m taking him in.”

   Frank could’ve found at least thirteen ways to slam Matt down on the ground before he even finished that sentence, but didn’t go through with any of them. Instead, he gritted out, “I found him, I’m dealing with him.”

   The mob enforcer gurgled blood.

   “You’re done here.”

   “I’m not done until I know where your newest hideout is. I need a location,” Frank spit, directed at the mob enforcer. Frank grabbed his chin in one hand, tilting his gaze away from Daredevil and onto himself. His fingers spanned the area around the mobster’s jawline where bruises were already starting to blossom and gripped hard, pulling his head up from where it lolled on the sticky floor of the alleyway, and forcefully brought it back down. It wasn’t enough to shatter his skull, but it did rattle him. _"Now_.”

   The enforcer took two more tries to speak, blood dripping down his chin with each, until he finally choked out an address.

   Frank wanted nothing more than to push the barrel of a gun to his temple and finish the job, but his rifle had skidded to the opposite end of the alleyway in the initial scuffle and he doubted Matt would be so kind as to fetch it if he asked. He had a Glock tucked in his waistband, a comforting presence against his lumbar spine, but wanted this to be more personal than one kill-shot; he wanted to feel his knuckles bruise against the mobster's face. Frank was about to settle for another punch, but Matt grabbed Frank's arm as he pulled it back, holding it in place.

   A warning.

   But Frank knew how to pick his battles and he wasn’t about to have this argument _again_ , so with a gravelly sigh he stood up, kicked the scumbag in his side, and gestured flippantly for Matt to take over. “All yours.”

   “Thank you,” Matt said, and the bastard actually sounded grateful.

  
***

   Frank was firmly convinced that Matt had taken to shadowing him. He wouldn’t put it past him, although it did make Frank grind his teeth a little because the fact that Red was tailing him could only mean one of two things: either he was keeping tabs on Frank, or he didn’t trust that Frank could take care of himself. Neither were favourable options.

   Matt was always there. Everywhere. Even if Frank didn’t know where he’d end up by the end of the night, it seemed that Daredevil did, and, on top of that, beat him to it.

   Hell, the last place he thought he’d find himself at midnight on a Wednesday was in the most heavily-wooded area of the nearest park, holding a pistol point-blank to a hot-dog vendor’s head. (In his defence, the hot-dog vendor sold his own homemade child porn on the side, it wasn’t just that he ran out of mustard at his cart.)

   A baton flew through the air and whacked the gun right out of his hand, nearly busting a few of Frank’s fingers in the process. The pain didn’t register as strongly as the annoyance did.  

   Frank heaved out a long-suffering sigh. “Your timing is fucking impeccable, Red,” he muttered sarcastically.

   Matt approached them in that distasteful horned getup of his; the sight of it already was enough to make Frank scowl. “You had your chance. You didn’t take it.”

   They both knew that was a load of bull. Matt arrived before he could even rough the guy up a little, for God’s sake. “And what, shoot him in the middle of West 42nd? I may have a reputation, Red, but I’m not a fucking animal.” Besides, he was officially declared dead weeks ago, and this was the closest he got to laying low. “You want me to traumatize innocent civilians?”

   He knew all too well what happened when passers-by got caught in the crossfire, and wasn’t about to involve civilians in his vigilantism if he didn’t have to. Not after what happened to Maria and the kids.

   “You’ve never had a problem shooting up places before. The hospital, the—”

   “Those were necessary,” he interjected firmly.

   The hot-dog vendor, from where he was kneeling, hands behind his head, execution-style, darted his gaze back and forth between Frank and Matt. He watched carefully, brows furrowed, and Frank had half a mind to shoot him right there just for being able to bear witness to Daredevil and the Punisher bickering like an old married couple.

   Frank pistol-whipped the hot-dog vendor.

   Matt didn’t flinch.

   “Get up,” Frank growled, and the vendor scrambled to his feet.

   Matt offered a small, appreciative smile to Frank and it looked like he was about to thank him, like before, like always, like they were a team or something, but it all quickly faltered when Frank shot the vendor in both knees. And then his groin, for good measure.

   If Matt wasn’t going to let him dispose of this shitstain for good, the least Frank could do was put him out of commission for a while, deter him as best as possible from reverting back to old ways. Matt’s grand solution was never going to work, not in the long run, but Frank could find methods of sidestepping it. A bullet through the brain would be the peak of effectiveness here, not to mention his own brand of justice, but he’d take what he could get.

   “Oh shut up,” Frank said sharply, over the pained cries resounding through the park, “unless you want me strangle you with your own intestines.”

   “Frank—”

   Sometimes he wondered what it would be like to shove the barrel of a rifle between Matt’s teeth, the muzzle nudging at the back of his throat. Just to shut him up a little.

   “He’ll be fine,” he assured. Matt could take it from here; Frank did as much as he could for now, though it hardly felt like it. Matt had way too much dirt on him (a majority of it being that he was one of the only living people who knew Frank Castle was still alive) for Frank to be pissing him off more than usual. Sure he had leverage of his own (knowing who was under Daredevil’s mask), but if it was a blind lawyer’s word against his, Frank wasn’t counting on anything. “He’s probably wishing he was dead right now, but he won’t be anytime soon. Unfortunately.”

   He left before Matt could thank him, this time.

  
***

   “If I didn’t know any better,” Frank managed in between the spells of gunfire coming their way, “I’d think you’ve been following me, Red.” He ducked behind the doorway connecting the dining room to the kitchen, staying low to the ground. The gang members, or what was left of them now, were taking cover behind the kitchen counter. Frank felt a paltry pang of guilt for showing up with guns ablazing during another one of the Irish men’s meals, but that was only because the food was going to waste. If they had been more cooperative about this whole thing, maybe blood wouldn’t have to be shed. (Oh, who was he kidding, he would’ve gunned down the assholes a long time ago if Daredevil hadn’t invited himself to the party.)

   Matt, from the stretch of wall across the open doorway, threw a brass candle holder into the kitchen. It was met with a heavy _thwack!_ followed by the distinct sound of a heavy body hitting the floor. “Oh?”

   “But I do know better,” he continued, “so I _know_ that you’ve been following me. There’s only so many times two people can run into each other accidentally in New York City, and we’ve surpassed the limit ten times over. Wanna tell me what that’s all about?” Frank snatched another candle holder off the shelf beside him and tossed it to Matt, who caught it and whipped it into the other room in a fluid motion.

   Another body dropped.

   “How many more are in there?” Matt asked, nodding toward the kitchen.

   “Two," Frank responded, fully aware that Matt damn well knew that. "Answer the question.”

   “Just making sure you’re not doing anything that’ll force me to represent you in court again,” Matt said, lips pulling upward just enough to give off the impression of a smirk. “Last time was a living nightmare.” Bullets pierced the wall right above his head. He didn’t seem all too put-off by it. Annoyed, if anything, and he grabbed the nearest object—a vase—and tossed it like a grenade. It missed; this time there was only the sound of glass shattering.

   “You’re a real riot today, Red,” Frank said dryly. “You tail the Avengers too, or am I just special?”

   Matt didn’t reply to that. Frank figured that if he was going to interrupt every single mission, he ought to learn how to hold a decent conversation — one that didn’t involve bringing out his moral compass for inspection every five seconds. “Alright, my turn,” he said, apropos of nothing. “Why’d you come here?”

   Frank huffed. “No, no, this ain’t a sleepover. We’re not playing 20 Questions, alright?” Waiting for his adversaries to have to reload, Frank lined up his shot and muttered, “None of your goddamn business anyway.”

   “Non-lethal,” Matt reminded him distractedly.

   Instead of his usual mantra, Frank mumbled, “Fuck off,” before he pulled the trigger.

   Two more bodies dropped, accompanied by pained shouts.

   “Move in,” Frank said in lieu of a gesture, and entered the kitchen, Matt at his six.

   There were five men on the ground on the farther side of the kitchen counter: two were unconscious, and the other three spit curses at Frank as he approached. One of them—blood soaking through his shirt at a steady rate, near his right shoulder—had acquired a knife, and lunged, fierce but poorly-executed, at Frank. Frank dodged it easily, grabbing the guy by his hair and socking him hard enough to knock him out. Somewhere off to his left, Matt was doing the same thing to another one. Frank took the knife and stuck in in the cheap countertop before Matt could even consider knocking it out of his hand. He walked over to the only remaining gang member still conscious—lying flat on his back and breathing harshly through gritted teeth, covering the bullet wound in his side with bloodied hands—kicked his hands away, and pressed his boot to the wound.

   Matt remained surprisingly quiet; Frank chalked it up to perverse curiosity.

   “Where is he?” Frank ground out, voice low but not loud.

   “Who?”

   “Who the fuck do you think I came back for?”

   He started spouting names as Frank’s boot pushed harder against the wound, and over the cries of, “Fucking hell!” Frank aimed his rifle at the gangster’s forehead. He said, before Matt could react, “Red, if you don’t do anything stupid, I won’t either.” Matt seemed to understand, because the gun was still in Frank’s hands as he told the man bleeding out on the floor, “I’ll give you one more chance. Think carefully. Where is he?”

   The man did think, long and hard, probably of the higher-ups, or their associates, until finally his eyes widened and Frank knew he’d figured it out. He laughed, sticky and choked off because of the blood coating his throat, spilling through his teeth, past his lips; it was a gurgling sound at best, and Frank cut it off with the steel toe of his boot digging into fractured ribs.

   “Oh, fuck! He’s in the basement!”

   Frank kicked the Irishman in the ribs, breaking at least two, to make sure he wouldn’t get up anytime soon, and led the way down to the basement. It was dank and cold, but there was nobody keeping guard so he let his rifle drop to his side.

   “Thought you didn’t have any more business with the Irish,” Matt said, almost conversationally.

   “Tying up loose ends. Speaking of business, how about you quit nosing into mine?” Frank replied distractedly, gaze searching—

   And there he was.

   He was exactly as Frank remembered him. Strapping. Strong. He had a few scars on his face from before, but nothing new. Still, just the thought of what they must’ve done to him made Frank’s blood boil and he wished, not for the first time this evening, that Matt wasn’t two paces away so he could finish off those bastards once and for all.

   “Frank?” he heard Matt say from somewhere behind him. “It’s a dog.”

  
***

   This time, Frank got all the way to “one batch, two batch—” before Matt’s baton whipped through the air and smacked his rifle to the ground.

   They were on the rooftop of the building where Frank once chained Daredevil up, all those weeks ago: him, the Irishman who he’d shot to get his dog back, and now, Matt. Frank would’ve been more alarmed at the fact that the Irishman knew exactly where to find him, but it must’ve just been a fault of his own, a sloppiness he hadn’t realized before, because Matt was getting better at it too. Hell, Matt had started joining him nightly now, so it must’ve been some kind of sixth sense. Seventh, possibly.

   The Irishman’s movements weren’t quick, as he didn’t take much time to recover, but he used the distraction to punch Frank right in the stomach, and honestly, this was just getting ridiculous. This couldn’t keep happening: if Matt was going to show up, he ought to be _on time_. Frank regained his balance easily because the kevlar under his jacket took most of the impact, but he still wasn’t fast enough to dodge the next hit, the Irishman’s fist slamming into his face, then again, narrowly, even as Frank threw his arms up in defense. He reeled back a few steps.

   “Shot me over a fucking dog,” the mobster said, venom dripping through his words like blood. “You’re gonna regret that.”

   “Only thing I regret is not breaking all of your ribs when I had the chance,” Frank growled, taking a lunge at the Irishman. They were both knocked to the ground, Frank’s fall cushioned by the other man’s. He quickly got the upper hand, straddling the man to pin him down, and then punched him twice to even out the score.

   “Frank!”

   The other times he could let slide with only a sense of dissatisfaction and a fully loaded gun weighing him down on the way home; this time, he’d be damned if he didn’t do the job right, like he’d been itching to since that the day that other slimy bastard used the pitbull against him.

   “Shut up, Red!”

   Turned out, Matt wasn’t trying to get all preachy on him again — he was trying to warn Frank that the Irishman was reaching out for the rifle from earlier, but he got the message pretty clearly on his own when the muzzle rose to point right between his eyes.

   _Ah, fuck._

   Frank had a Glock in his waistband and at least two knives tucked in his boots and another in the holster on his thigh, but he didn’t want to risk any quick movements. The safety was off and the Irishman’s finger was curled around the trigger.

   But a baton hit him square in the forehead before he could pull it.

   Usually at such close range, a throw like that would’ve knocked the guy out. But the Irishman just shook it off like a regular hit, remaining dazed for no more than a few seconds. It was still plenty of time for Frank to grab the barrel of the gun and pull it away from himself. The other man wrenched it out of his hand after he’d collected himself once more, and, with renewed rage, aimed too quickly and fired. Frank managed to roll off the man and onto the hard gravelly ground beside him just in time for the bullet to whiz past his shoulder. It grazed his arm as it went by.

   Then, from a couple yards behind him, he could hear in quick succession: a crack, a shout, and a drop.

   _Matt_.

   Frank lifted his head enough to see that Daredevil’s cowl had fractured, just like before. Just like when Frank had shot him there himself. It held, though, and the only reminder of the shot was the crack slipping from one of the horns down to the ear and the shock on Matt’s face. His expression was just about as murderous as he’d ever been: dangerously so. He made a move toward the Irishman, stumbling a few steps then pausing for a moment altogether, too open, too vulnerable. Frank figured, shot like that, it was probably getting to his senses, messing his head up. He probably would’ve gotten shot at again if Frank hadn’t elbowed the Irishman in the ribs, jerked the rifle out of his hands, and sprung to his feet with a considerable amount of grace.

   The rifle was like a warm hand in his: a comforting, assuring, satisfying weight against his palm, and his finger around the trigger felt like a reunion with an old lover. Standing at the Irishman’s feet,  Frank cocked the gun without forethought, a mechanical movement, practiced and precise, as he aimed at the gangster’s head. Right between the eyes.

   “—penny and dime,” he finished under his breath before pulling the trigger.

   One shot, one kill.

  
***

 

   “Let it go, Red!” Frank snarled, tightening the headlock he had Matt in. It wasn’t that he expected any thanks, but Frank wouldn’t have complained if Matt didn’t prompt the same debate for just one night. “His death isn’t even on your conscience.”

   “Doesn’t mean it was the right thing for you to do.”

   “So what should I have done? Let him kill us both?”

   “Taken him in, let him do his time.” Matt elbowed Frank in the ribs, which didn’t do much through the Kevlar snug against his chest. He changed tactics quickly, explosively, kicking Frank in the shin with the heel of his boot just enough for the ex-Marine to loosen the hold. It was enough for Matt to slip out of it, turn, and send Frank stumbling backwards with a punch to his cheek.

   The tang of blood stained Frank’s tongue, grounding, and he rushed forward to slam Matt against the door to the rooftop. “He would’ve killed us both without a second thought!” Frank asserted, strong hand against Matt’s throat to keep him in place. Pressing, but not squeezing; just holding. Matt put up a struggle, but Frank pushed against him with his body weight to keep him pinned to the door. One of Frank’s knees nudged between Matt’s. There was less than an inch of space between them now—legs touching, heaving chest to heaving chest, nearly nose-to-nose—and Frank, for a moment, could imagine what it was like to be Matt: acutely aware of the other man’s heartbeat, his slightest movements, the heat radiating off him. “I did what I had to do, Red, and you don’t have to understand it, but respect that I made the choice for a reason. I took care of a problem in the only surefire way.

   “You didn’t have to be here tonight, Red. I didn’t ask you to be.” Frank eased his grip on Matt’s throat, just a touch now, a presence, but Matt didn’t move, only curled his lip. It was wet with blood, Frank noticed. With their proximity, it was difficult not to. His gaze followed the slow movement of Matt’s tongue darting out to wipe the blood away, and not for the first time was Frank perversely grateful that he couldn’t be caught staring. “If you wanna work together, say you wanna work together. Don’t just show up on your high horse and start spewing bullshit about how my morals are inferior.”

   Matt laughed, cold and bitter. “I hardly think that’d work out.”

   “Yeah, so do I,” said Frank, voice low. “Listen, I’ve played nice, but I’ve had enough now. Stay out of my way, Red, or you’re gonna become just another problem I have to deal with.”

   It wasn’t the first time Frank had threatened him, but this time he knew even as the words left his mouth that it was nothing more than an empty promise. A scare tactic. Because as much of a pain the ass Matt was, he wasn’t nearly on the same level as the scum Frank swept off the streets. They were both doing the same thing, essentially, although in different ways—one clearly more effective than the other—and as long as Daredevil was fighting for Hell’s Kitchen, same as Frank, he knew there was no way he could put a bullet in the guy’s head.

   It was a tragedy, because sometimes he really wanted to.

   “I’m going to do everything I can to protect Hell’s Kitchen, and if that means not letting you murder anyone else on my watch, I can live with that.”

   “I won't let you live.”

   “You don’t want another death on your conscience, Frank.”

   Frank dropped the hand on Matt’s throat and took a step away, circling back to finish cleaning and packing up his guns. A harsh laugh escaped his lips, startling himself slightly by how the sound carried with the wind. “I didn’t _want_ a third cup of coffee today, but I had one anyway.”

   Matt scoffed incredulously, but it seemed he was feeling the same bone-deep tiredness that Frank was, because he didn’t try to start another fistfight, as much as his hands clenched and unclenched as he paced a stretch of the rooftop. “Do you even feel guilty at all? All the lives you’ve taken, and for what? A glorified moment of revenge?”

   Frank always wondered if Matt would ever tire of having the same conversation fifteen times over, but this was proof that he quite clearly didn’t. A wave of exhaustion hit Frank as Matt opened his mouth to continue his yammering.

   He sat himself down by the edge of the roof, taking out all his weapons and laying them out in front of him one at a time, to do inventory on how many rounds he had left. He kept his knives tucked safely on his person, just in case Matt did try to start something again, though Frank doubted it. “You ever lose anyone, Red?”

   Matt didn’t say anything, but his scowl grew: an obvious _yes_.

   “Wouldn’t you give anything to do right by their memory?” Frank went on. “Maybe you couldn’t save ‘em, but wouldn’t it be nice to avenge them? Make their death worth something?”

   Matt stayed quiet, but Frank couldn’t tell if he was thinking or plainly ignoring him.

   “Oh, so you do understand where I’m coming from. You just don’t give a shit.”

   “Listen, I had a clear chance to do something, but I didn’t take it. I could’ve—”

   Frank really thought that he was getting somewhere. But unless Matt was going to try to understand his methods, he had more than enough of this.

   “Don’t.”

   “What?”

   “Start this again.”

   “Frank—”

   “ _Enough_ , Red.”

   And they left it at that.

  
***

   Matt didn’t show up at all the next time Frank had a gun to some shitbag’s head. Frank even paused after “penny and dime” just in case Matt was going to swing in through a window or drop down from the ceiling to kick the Glock out of Frank’s hand, but he was met with nothing more than silence.

   Frank took the shot.

   It felt too easy.

  
***

   Something was definitely wrong.

   Frank hadn’t seen Daredevil in a week now, and even though it was what he’d asked for, he doubted Matt would be so quickly deterred from continuing to make Frank’s life ten times harder. He hadn’t stopped before, so why now?

   The fact that Frank had seen Matt fight until he physically could not get back up more often than he’d seen him take a night off—which, to Frank’s chagrin, was never—made it feel like daggers were twisting around in his gut. It was worry, sharp and strong and borderline painful — not to mention _completely uncalled for_. But no matter how hard Frank tried to convince himself that Matt was fine, that the last thing Daredevil needed was a babysitter, that he was a pain in the ass anyway, the worry took root deep in Frank’s chest and refused to let up so easily. Its grip only loosened when Frank found himself, half an hour later, on Matt’s fire escape, jimmying his window with a knife. (The only one that wasn’t stained glass. Matt couldn’t appreciate it, sure, but Frank could recognize that he’d landed a nice piece of real estate, view notwithstanding.)

   Matt was ready by the time Frank managed to lift the window open wide enough to slip in, heavy boots soft coming down onto hardwood. Even with the minimal moonlight streaming in through the open window, Frank could make out the outline of a bed, a dresser, and, only a few feet away, Matt. He had his baton at the ready, which seemed incongruous in hand now, because in lieu of the suit Frank liked to heckle, he was wearing sweats and a fitted t-shirt. His cowl was off, and so were his glasses.

   It was the first time since they were in court that Frank had seen him without his mask on.

   His stomach twisted again, but it felt different this time.

   “Hey, don’t shoot,” Frank said lightly, slipping the knife back into its holster. “It’s just me.”

   “Just you, a murderer who’s breaking into my apartment in the dead of night. Very assuring,” Matt replied dryly, but set the weapon down on the nightstand anyway. It was still well within reach.  “What the hell do you want, Castle?”

   “Not a fight, not today.”

   “Then what?”

   “Haven’t seen you around in a while,” Frank said conversationally. He looked Matt up and down slowly and unabashedly, from the tousled bedhead to the cozy socks, to check for any obvious reasons why he’d been taken out of comission for so long — and if he spent a moment or two appreciating the fit of Matt’s casualwear, the man in question would be none the wiser. “Just wanted to see if you’re still alive.”

   Matt’s shoulders sagged, the tension draining from his body alongside the comfort. A hand slipped up to press at his stomach, and though his expression was shadowed, Frank was all too familiar with the sudden hiss that it provoked.

   “You alright, Red?”

   “I’ll live.”

   “Very assuring,” Frank echoed in the same tone Matt had used previously. He was about to leave then—because Matt was not, in fact, dead, and unlike a _certain somebody_ , Frank wasn’t in the habit of not taking clear hints to fuck off—but the sight of Matt’s shirt wetly clinging to his skin made him reconsider.

   Blood seeped through the fabric, the stain growing slowly as it painted his hand red, and Matt had to use his other to reach out and brace himself against the nightstand for balance. Frank had seen him a lot worse for wear up on dingy rooftops, but Matt still looked like shit right now. And he must’ve known it too, because he didn’t even bother trying to hide his glaring discomfort as he sat himself down on the edge of the bed.

   “Jesus Christ.” Matt looked like he had an admonition ready on the tip of his tongue, but Frank barrelled on before he could say it. “What the hell happened to you?”

   Matt sucked in a harsh breath. “Must’ve tore my stitches.”

   Frank’s primary concern was assessing the damage, and before he knew it he had taken long strides until he was by the bed, hesitant as to what to do next. In the back of his mind, he wondered who’d done the stitches in the first place. Definitely not Matt himself — Frank had long grown used to patching himself up, but he hardly would’ve managed without his sight. Maybe one of Murdock’s lawyer buddies. Not Nelson, he seemed too much like the fainting type. Could’ve been Karen.

   Frank forced himself not to dwell, instead asking impatiently, “You gonna take the shirt off so I can see the damage, or do I have to cut it off of you?”

   Matt huffed out a breath of laughter that soon dissolved into a groan. “I’ll be fine,” he said, unconvincingly. “You don’t have to stick around.”

   “You gonna re-do those stitches by yourself?” When the only answer he received was silence, Frank smirked. “Yeah, thought so.”

   Matt paused, halfway through peeling the sticky shirt off, to open his mouth, close it, open it again, and say, alongside a confused little chuckle, “What, are you offering?”

   He hadn’t really meant to, but now that he was here, Frank damn well couldn’t let a blind guy poke at himself with a needle, even despite having whatever uncanny senses Matt possessed. It was probably partially his fault too, the stitches tearing. Matt wouldn’t have gotten out of bed if he didn’t have to readily defend himself against a home invader. “Better me than you.”

   Matt pulled the shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor, exposing skin that Frank drank in a little too slowly and greedily and guiltily. He noticed the new scars overlapping the old, near Matt’s collarbone, and the purple tint surrounding his lower ribs; they were probably fractured, if not broken. Frank mapped out the rest of his injuries, quickly but attentively, to get a rough estimation of how the fight must’ve gone down—not in Matt’s favor, evidently—before he forced his gaze toward the patch of gauze taped to Matt’s stomach, about an inch away from his navel. The gauze was light and it didn’t take much for the blood to soak through that and the shirt he’d just removed. It was less than Frank expected, especially with all the under the breath expletives Matt was throwing around whenever he so much as blinked, but the wound itself was still far from healed.

   “You know, I know an actual nurse who—”

   “Who ain’t here,” Frank pointedly finished for him, even though Matt wasn’t putting up much of a fight. It was like he was resigned to Frank’s aid even before his half-hearted attempt to dismiss it. “I am. Listen, Red, you want my help or not?”

   Matt just made an acquiescing gesture, and Frank crowded closer to him, lifting a corner of the medical tape enough to get a sense of the severity of the wound. It was long and deep, and now bleeding freely without the stitches holding the skin together. Frank knew a gunshot wound when he saw one. He patted the tape back down, casting a quick glance around the room. Books on the nightstand, glasses on the dresser. “You got a first-aid kit lying around somewhere?”

   Matt gestured vaguely in the direction of his bedroom door. “Bathroom.”

   Frank nodded, and immediately felt stupid for doing so, adding, “Be right back. Stay here.” Like Matt, despite the bleeding and the bruising and probable full-body soreness, could manage something exceptionally rash in the minute it would take for Frank to locate the kit and come right back. (Although, on second thought, Frank wouldn’t put it past him.)

   Frank located the kit easily; it was under the sink, same spot he kept his own at his current safehouse. And since Matt wasn’t going to bleed out anytime soon, Frank took a moment to let his curiosity take the reins and snoop through Murdock’s medicine cabinet. Unsurprisingly, though disappointingly, there was only a neat line of cologne bottles, aftershave, and a razor on one shelf, a toothbrush and toothpaste on the other. “Got any painkillers?” Frank called. “Might need some.”

   Matt’s voice carried from the bedroom. “Toughest thing I’ve got is aspirin. But I’ll go without.”

   _At least Red’s got balls_ , Frank thought, breath suddenly gone and replaced with a swell of pride in his chest. _I’ll give him that_.  

  
***

   Frank wasn’t exactly gentle with Matt, but there was a level of mindfulness and care he applied to Matt’s stitches that he hardly bothered with when it came to his own. Still, he could rattle off a load of other experiences that were much more comfortable and much less tedious than both getting and giving stitches, and some of those included waterboarding or getting shot in the head. Matt was gritting his teeth so hard it was a wonder how his jaw didn’t break, and Frank told him to have a drink, at least, but even that didn’t ease up his tough guy routine.

   For as often as Matt got beat on, he should’ve been used to getting stitches by now. It wasn’t like he was a stranger to pain, although Frank supposed not many of Hell’s Kitchen's criminals thought to thread needles through his skin on a nightly basis. That was for the better, really — Matt wouldn’t last long out there if they did.

   “You okay there, Red?” Frank said, pausing to give Matt a second to breathe. Matt hadn’t moved in position since Frank had come back into the bedroom with the supplies, so he let him stay there, sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning back with his hands braced on the mattress. Frank knelt on the cold hardwood floor beside the bed to get easier access to the wound.

   “I’m fine,” Matt assured, although he was doing a terrible job of concealing a wince. “Keep going.”

   “I’ve only done two stitches and you’re already breathing hard.”

   “My entire body feels like a heavy-bag, Frank.”

   “Fair enough.” Frank reached over for the bottle of scotch on the nightstand, not bothering with the tumbler.

   “No, you don’t have to— I don’t want another drink.”

   Frank gave him a look that, even though Matt wouldn’t see, the dry beat of silence would paint for him. “It’s not for you,” he said, and took a swig out of the bottle before setting it back down. It was like swallowing fire. Must’ve been the cheap stuff. Eyes found the bullet wound, then skimmed over the rest of the bruises and cuts lining Matt’s chest and abdomen, first with his gaze and then with gentle fingertips. His voice was quiet but not soft when he asked, “Who did this to you?”

   Matt shrugged. “Some two-bit criminal.”

   It was like he wasn’t even trying to be convincing, and Frank conveyed his thriving annoyance with a displeased grunt. “You wanna try that again? This time without your nose growing, Pinocchio.”

   The corners of Matt’s lips—and Frank had never really noticed before, just how red they were—turned up slightly and a tiny huff that could easily be mistaken for laughter escaped him. But the small smile was gone in an instant, too soon replaced with a grim line as Matt took in a shallow breath. “Remember when you killed one of the Irish last week?”

   Frank groaned at how exhausting it was to only ever talk about one thing with Matt, and downed some more of the scotch. He wanted to be considerate with the stitches, but he wasn’t opposed to rushing through the last few and then hurling himself out the window if it meant avoiding Matt’s holier-than-thou attitude. Hurling Matt out the window would work too. “You know what, Red? Forget I even asked.”

   “No, I mean,” Matt said, surprisingly unsanctimonious, “the rest of the gang found out. Weren’t too happy about it. They were looking for you, but when they couldn’t find you, they settled for me.”

   Frank sat back on his heels, the wind knocked out of him. It was his fault Matt was sitting here with his skin mottled in shades of blue and purple and a bullet hole in his stomach. Frank should have been there. If not to help Matt, at least to have taken the beating himself. His stomach coiled roughly, the jagged edges of his guilt sharp enough to eat him from the inside out. Frank felt like he was going to be sick all over the hardwood. He wanted to offer an apology, but it would feel too out of place, out of character, too abrupt.

   Matt continued, “Claire—the nurse I mentioned before—she took the bullets out and stitched me up the first time. Prescribed a week of bed rest.”

   He leveled his breathing and unclenched his jaw as not to let his blood boil too hotly now. There’d be time later for retribution. “Smart lady,” Frank remarked, humming in approval.

   “Yeah,” Matt drawled out. “But, uh, I went out a couple days after, looking for the guys who shot me. I wasn’t much of a fight that day, with the internal bruising and all. I broke two ribs and they got away before I could get the police to haul them into the station.”

   Frank didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t the casual calmness in the other man’s voice. The resignation.

   He flicked a bruise on Matt’s ribs.

   “Hey! What was that for?”

   “Being an idiot,” Frank muttered. “You gotta know when to hold and when to fold, Red. When to take a rest.”

   Matt gaped, part-surprised and part-offended, covering his hand to to the bruise like a child. It would’ve been cute, if he didn’t also have an open wound Frank was at eye-level with.

   “Do it again and I’ll kill you myself.” And Matt must’ve sensed that that was the end of the particular conversation, because he didn’t jump at the chance to rebuke Frank’s morals (and Frank practically handed him that one, albeit unintentionally). He stayed quiet— _t_ _hank God_ —and Frank continued stitching him up. It was Frank’s gravelly voice that finally broke the silence, because Matt was starting to shift around uncomfortably and as unopposed to stabbing him Frank was, they both needed a distraction to keep them from talking about their work after hours. (He didn’t particularly care for Matt’s day job either.) For all that could be said about Frank Castle, his bedside manner could’ve been worse. “I named him.”

   There was a beat, and then: “What?”

   “The dog,” Frank clarified, carefully threading the third stitch. He ignored Matt’s wince altogether this time, and the way his skin warmed under Frank’s touch. “My dog. The one I—”

   “ _We_.”

   “Saved—”

   “Stole.”

   “ _Saved_ ,” he asserted, fixing Matt with a hard look. He wasn’t sure if it was actually lost on the other man or if he just wasn’t acknowledging it. “Yeah. That one.”

 _Fourth stitch_.

   It was familiar, almost calming, the way his hands worked: one weaving the needle through and through, and the other pinching the skin in place. “His name’s Max. A lot of people are afraid of pitbulls, ‘yknow, ‘cause they look like they’d fuck you up—” _fifth stitch_ “—but Max, he’s a real sweetheart. Slobbers all over me when I get home, sleeps on my feet when I’m in bed. He’s got a lot of heart even though he’s been through all that shit.”

 _Sixth, seventh, eighth_.

   “I hate those bastards for what they did to him,” Frank continued, and stopped himself short before he told Matt in detail what he wanted to do to every one of the assholes that ever laid a hand on his dog.

 _Ninth, tenth_.

   Instead, he said, “Alright, you’re done.” He patted Matt’s knee as he stood, and swiped the bottle off the nightstand to finish it off. “You better not tear those. I ain’t doing them for you again.”

   Matt didn’t mention how he never actually asked Frank to patch him up at all. He was looking at Frank a bit funny, though—as much as he could, anyway, head cocked and brows slightly drawn, slow upturn of a small smile pulling at his lips—a little awed and a little confused, and Frank had a hard time figuring out if it was because of the medical aid or because he’d been waxing eloquent about his dog for the past few minutes, but either way, he hoped Matt wouldn’t bring it up again. “Thank you.”

   “Yeah, yeah. Just do me a favor, Red.” He waited for Matt to settle back, lying on top of the covers; getting under them must’ve been too much of a hassle. “Don’t even think about leaving that bed until you’re all healed up.”

   Matt’s smile could’ve just as easily been a smirk. It most definitely _became_ a smirk after he heard the jump in Frank’s pulse. “You know I can’t promise that.”

   “Yeah, well, try.” Frank didn’t know why he put so much effort into trying to keep Matt alive when a majority of the time he wanted to strangle him anyway, but this, this felt… _right_. Setting the empty bottle back on the nightstand, Frank crossed the room to the window he’d entered from. “I broke into your place once, you bet your ass I can do it again.”

   And, knowing Matt and his reckless tendencies, he was probably going to have to.

  
***

   It was only a day later that Frank found himself prowling the familiar moonlit streets leading toward Matt’s building. A burgeoning reminder that Matt was about the last person Frank trusted to take care of themselves followed him home last night, weighty like Kevlar but not as comfortable. He woke up the same way, the feeling an itch under his skin as he took out mobsters and murderers, and even the satisfaction of finally being able to unload bullets freely didn’t do much to shake it off.

   Sometimes Frank really fuckin’ hated Matt Murdock.

   Even so, Frank snuck into Matt’s place at promptly the same time as last night—

   Just as Matt was halfway into his Daredevil costume, about to go out with broken ribs and bruises and what was only yesterday a gaping wound, which, if it hadn’t been for Frank, would still be gaping.

   _Most of the time_ Frank really fuckin’ hated Matt Murdock.

   They both stopped and stared at each other for a long moment, Frank’s gaze steely and Matt’s perceptive but unseeing. Matt had one leg in the suit, the rest of him unclothed save for his boxer briefs. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Frank wasn’t sure if he was more relieved or disappointed at that, while in the forefront it was resignation all around. The cowl was sitting on top of the dresser. Even in the dark it was easy to make out the silhouette of the horns.

   For once, Matt was flustered enough to look like a deer in the headlights, instead of his usual self-righteous self. Frank took a few steps closer and he could see the full-body blush that started at Matt’s ears and blossomed all the way into his socks. His lips were already a brighter red than the costume, but the rest of him was catching up. It gave a whole new level to his nickname. “I was just—”

   “Save it, Red,” Frank interjected firmly. Matt actually closed his mouth. Go figure. “Don’t be an idiot. Get back in bed before you tear something else.”

   Matt looked like he was about to argue, but between the almost nakedness and the near death, he wasn’t really in any position to. So he shucked his suit, leaving it in the middle of his bedroom floor like dirty laundry, and climbed into bed. He burrowed under the covers, the top of his uncombed hair peeking out. Only the sag of the mattress beside him made Matt lift his head. “What are you doing?”

   Frank settled back against the headboard, as comfortably as he could manage with the small arsenal he kept in his clothes prodding him from every which way. He stretched his legs comfortably, crossed at the ankles, and his arms folded across his chest. “I don’t trust you,” was Frank’s only reply, and when it was met with a confused silence, he added, “not to go out and kill yourself as soon as I leave.”

   Matt huffed. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

   “No, you don’t,” he conceded. “You need a… Is there a word for someone who makes sure the devil doesn’t get himself killed out of stupidity?”

   “Sinner,” Matt said. “Heathen.”

   Frank’s laugh was obviously out of use, giving out like some kind of rusty pipe, but it made Matt’s lips quirk up nonetheless. For a second there, and not even a long one, Frank was reminded why he was doing this. Why he gave even the tiniest fuck about the state of Matt’s well-being. One half-cocked smile and he was willing to sit there until morning, gun digging into the small of his back and sweat and blood spotting his clothes, just to make sure Matt couldn’t pick a fight he was sure to lose.

   “What’s with the sudden interest in not wanting people to die?”

   There were a lot of things Frank could’ve responded with: some choice words, some choice actions. A threat, a guilt-trip. Nothing but the sound of his weapons clacking as he got up, crossed the room, and left the way he came. But Frank liked to think he was taking the high road—which he was perfectly capable of, despite what Matt had to say—when he merely replied, “Low blow, Red.” (It also kept him from having to tell Matt that he only had a terrifying, bothersome interest in not letting about five people die, three of which he’d failed already. His heart rate would’ve told Matt the rest.)

   Matt at least had the sense to sound apologetic. They weren’t out on some dingy rooftop, he could let it go for one night. “Sorry.” It was followed shortly by a pause, a sigh, and then, incredulously: “Are you really going to sit there all night?”

   It didn’t really register until then that he had broken into Matt’s place for a second time in two days, instead of heading back to his own. That he was sitting here with Matt Murdock, instead of going home to Max and sleeping off the night’s bloodshed. That he was caring a little too deeply and too overtly for a guy that got on every one of Frank’s nerves on a daily basis, instead of pointedly ignoring him like Frank swore to himself he would. But now it was too late and he was too deep in already, so, determinedly, he hummed an affirmation. “I’ll try not to get blood on your silk sheets, sunshine.”

   “There’s a perfectly good couch out in the living room that I’m almost positive is already covered in blood stains,” Matt argued.

   “Like I said,” Frank reiterated with a stretch, “I don’t trust you.”

   It felt like chaining Daredevil to a chimney: not right, but _good_. He was running purely on stubborn defiance now, like Matt so often liked to do, but Frank had a feeling he could match him tit-for-tat today.

   It came as a pleasant surprise that Matt just grumbled to himself and settled back under the covers, turning to lie on his good side. Incidentally, it meant he had to face Frank. It also meant that he was at eye-level with the holster on Frank’s thigh, which Frank knew Matt could sense. “Is the armory in your pants really necessary?”

   Frank’s smirk seeped through to his tone. “Careful, Red. That almost sounds like a come-on.” It was worth it, to know that the tips of Matt’s ears had gone pink, even if the moonlight didn’t reach everywhere the blanket did. Still, Frank assented: methodically, all practiced movements and precisely zero added flair as he checked each gun, disassembling and cleaning them with his sleeve as best he could manage, counting the rounds left and cataloguing them, before setting each down one by one on Matt’s nightstand. He pushed the Bible off to the side and had enough of a mind not to place his Glock on it. Next were the knives, after wiping each side clean on his jeans. Then, he shed his jacket, folding it up, and his vest afterward, letting both drop to the floor beside the bed; the latter fell with a thud that echoed in the sudden quiet of the bedroom. Two more, and his boots joined the pile on the floor.

  
***

   If Frank thought Matt would fall asleep right away, he was terribly mistaken. In fact, Matt was actually quite awake after having someone break into his apartment for the second time this week, especially since that someone was a mass murderer, so Frank, unusually agreeable, settled in for a long night.

   They got to talking. Really talking, not just the surface stuff like morals and injury assessment and half-assed jabs. It was… comfortable. Refreshing. Matt was easy to talk to when he wasn’t being an asshole, which was probably why Frank only recently discovered the fact. It had been so long since he'd had a real conversation—save for the rare handful with Karen, but it was better this way, better if he let her be—that the feeling that swept over him, the one he would later remember as contentment, was one he’d for so long associated with Maria. He still checked the exits constantly, distantly, in the back of his mind, but his limbs were looser and his thoughts were freer and the tension he held coiled in his muscles evaporated a little more every time he made Matt smile.

  
***

   “Why Max?”

   Frank wasn’t sure how they kept up talking about the mutt for the past half hour, or how he and Matt ended up lying side-by-side, facing each other with their noses inches from touching, but he didn’t mind either. He wouldn’t tire of talking about Max as long as Matt kept asking about him. It was one of the few harmless topics between them. Both he and Matt learned early on, in knowing silences and unspoken courtesies, that there were some things that were unquestionably off limits.

   Max was always a safe bet.

   “Hmm?”

   “Why’d you name him Max?” Matt asked, tired passivity making way for actual curiosity. “Or is that what the Irish named him?”

   Try as he might, Frank couldn’t keep the scowl off his face. “They called him a lot of things, but none were a name.” Expression softening, he sighed, breath fanning over Matt’s cheek. Matt didn’t move. “Used to know a guy named Max. Good guy. We met in boot camp. It was hell, I gotta tell you. That shit’s hard. No one tells you because boot camp’s nothing compared to what you gotta do afterwards, but that doesn’t make it any easier. You gotta train your body to do all kinds of things like they’re second nature when you’re not sure you want to do them at all, but Max, he never complained. He was always cracking jokes in the lineup, trying to make us laugh in front of the drill sergeant. Such a fucking asshole,” Frank said, although there was a hint of fondness in his tone. “Kept all of us in line, though. Made sure we were okay, that we were sleeping enough, that we wrote our families every week. Me and the guys made fun of him for it, told him we already had a mother and we didn’t need another one on our case, but it was half-assed and he knew it. It definitely didn’t stop him. He was a real stand-up guy, Max. Didn’t let anything or anyone change him. I respected that about him.

   “We went for the same speciality after boot camp, but I didn’t see him around much. Not until we got assigned our units and ended up in the same one, somehow. I got lucky. Then we were deployed and he was still making jokes, still reminding us to write home.

   “He was the first of the unit to go, even though out of all of us, he was the one that least deserved it.” Frank didn’t want to get into the details; Matt hadn’t asked. Not to mention it was growing increasingly harder to talk around the sudden lump in his throat. It took a moment and a deep breath before he started up again. “He was just a kid, Red, he was the youngest of all of us. Barely over nineteen. _He didn’t deserve it._ Two more guys in that unit died a little while later, but it was different. It wasn’t as bad, compared to Max. I didn’t— After that, I didn’t care anymore. Didn’t feel. I did my job and I did it well, and then I got out.

   “Y’know,” Frank added after a beat of suffocating silence, “I wanted to name my son Max. But Maria, I never told her the story and she thought Frank Jr. sounded cuter. And God knows I couldn’t say no to her. When I got back, I was going to ask her if we could try for another, but I never got the chance.

   “And then I found this dog who deserves so much better than what he got, who’s always wagging his tail despite everything, I found this tough sonuvabitch, and I thought, _yeah, he’s a Max_.”

   Frank felt like he could breathe easier now, after telling Matt. The story was one he’d kept locked up close to his chest for so long that it was freeing to finally get it out, like the graveyard all over again.

   And Matt — Matt listened intently the entire time without a peep, rubbing Frank’s arm soothingly. Frank hadn’t noticed until he said his piece, and he convinced himself that by then it was too late to ask Matt to stop.

   Matt had this funny look on his face by the time Frank was done, and he couldn’t really make it out in the dark, much less decipher it, until Matt said, so quietly Frank wondered whether he meant for it to come out, “You’re not a monster, y’know.”

   That only prompted Frank to give Matt a look of his own: dry and incredulous. And though the words were nice to hear from Matt, from Karen, from anybody, Frank didn’t need to be pampered with sweet little lies like that. “Did you hit your head? Or do you just not remember my body count?”

   He expected silence over a retort, but received neither. Matt’s hand, the one stilled on his bicep, ran further up his arm, past his shoulder, and settled on the back of his neck. He was close, too close, and even with the minimal amount of actual contact, Frank felt him everywhere: his warmth radiating, their breaths mingling. He wanted to touch Matt about as badly as he wanted to pull back, but found that he was frozen in place.

   “Frank—” But Matt stopped himself short, pulling Frank in until their lips were pressed together, slow and tentative and more than he deserved and goddammit, he hadn’t felt like this— _good_ and _whole_ and _human_ —for a long time, had hardly _felt_ , period, for so long, and Matt’s lips were the shock to life he’d been waiting for all this time.

   Matt pulled away too soon, but at least it gave Frank a chance to finally breathe again. And before Red could say something stupid like _sorry_ or _I shouldn’t have done that_ , Frank managed to get the mental cogs turning quickly enough to say, “Now I know you must’ve hit your head.” And then he kissed him again, lips curling into the semblance of a grin against the airy peal of Matt’s laughter.

  
***

   Frank didn’t know whether it was the pain or the fact that it was nearing dawn already, but when Matt finally did manage some shut-eye, he slept like the dead. He didn’t wake up when Frank checked his stitches and reapplied the dressing, snored through gear and weapons being donned, and didn’t even stir when Frank left the apartment back out through the window.

  
***

   It took a day’s worth of scouting before Frank found the men that had shot Matt, watching them through the scope of his rifle. His blood boiled just at the sight of them, at the thought of what they’d done to Matt, but his hands were as steady as ever. “One batch,” Frank rumbled, and it felt like fire running through his veins. He knew that no matter whatever Matt said, Frank couldn’t give this up, the satisfaction of retribution well-deserved. “Two batch,” he continued. “Penny and dime.”

   He didn’t hesitate this time. Didn’t wait. Frank just took the shots, one after another after another, barely breathing in between.

  
***

   Frank visited Matt every day for the next week, after his nightly patrols, to check on the progress of his recuperation. He fetched him water and aspirin and kept him company to ease his cabin fever. They stayed up, most nights a textbook copy of the first, spent talking and kissing and carding a hand through Matt’s hair until he fell asleep. Frank was always gone by morning.

   Matt wasn’t too crazy about the whole _resting a week after being shot in the abdomen_ thing Frank suggested, and his expression every time Frank slipped in, like clockwork, was a low-shelf cocktail of resignation and relief. Frank didn’t pay it any mind. (These check-ins also served as a petty slice of payback for all the times Matt had been the one ghosting him, all the missions where Frank didn’t pull the trigger in reluctant favor of the law.) But Claire, on the other hand, who Frank had been introduced to on the third night, said, “Thank God someone has some common sense around here.” She told Frank to _look after Matt, that one’s a real troublemaker_ , and Frank replied with a good-natured grin, an understanding between them, “I can assure you, ma’am, I’m trying my best.” When she’d left, Matt’s jaw had fallen somewhere on the floor and he blinked, gaping exaggeratedly.

   “What?”

   “You called her ‘ma’am.’ You were _nice_.”

   “I can be polite, y’know.” And he knew Matt was going to have something to say about that, so he’d raced him to the quip. “To people that actually give a shit about your well-being, at least. You are not one of those people.”

   Now, Matt was lounging around on the couch, shirtless, the tease, because he wanted a change from the past few days of lounging around in bed. Frank sat on the opposite armchair, the arsenal he had on his person when he walked through the door now spread across the coffee table as he took his time cleaning the evidence of tonight off of each weapon.

   Frank still didn’t know what they were, he and Matt. He didn’t ask, either. All he knew was that he had a good thing going for him right now and he was going to make sure, _make damn sure_ this time, that he wouldn’t lose it.

   Funny, how these things worked. How he went from hating Matt to going out of his way to make sure he was alright, just like that. How Matt let him into his life without much of a fight. How Frank still thought of Maria sometimes, but never as a benchmark.

   Matt was so quiet Frank thought he had drifted off, the only noise in the apartment the city sounds wafting in from outside and the clack of a magazine after Frank replaced the ammo. He moved on to the next, just as Matt lifted his head ever-so-slightly from the arm of the couch. “You killed them,” he said, matter-of-factly, and Frank didn’t even consider playing dumb. He knew exactly who Matt was talking about—he wouldn’t have brought it up if it was just anybody—and even Frank could smell the fresh scent of blood that seemed more and more often inseparable from his utility jacket. “The Irish… Most of them wear the same off-brand of cologne. They wore it the day I was shot. It’s heady, you only had to have been at one of their usual spots for it to stay in your nose for a little while afterwards, but the way it’s clinging to your clothes… You must’ve spent the whole day tracking them.”  

   “Yeah.” His hands didn’t stop working at the gun, didn’t even pause as he checked the rounds. He did look up, though, just for a second, challenge clear in his eyes that Matt couldn’t see. It came through in Frank’s voice, too. “I did.”

   But he wasn’t met with the pressed line of Matt’s mouth, or the air of disappointment he seemed to exude on cue whenever they got into moral arguments. Matt’s face was neutral, but… softer. He understood, this time. Or at least he came close to it. There was no on-the-spot soapbox preaching, no principled spiel. It was refreshing. Relieving. Frank had no idea what brought it on—getting shot, the time to think it all over while on bedrest, _them_ —but he was far from complaining.

   And when Matt didn’t say anything except, “Want coffee?” there wasn’t any tiredness in the pinched lines of his face, still only that hint of understanding. It wasn’t approval, but it was something. Matt was making an effort to comprehend a view that wasn’t his own, to not change Frank, to let him make his own decisions. And that was more than he expected. More than enough.

   “Yeah,” he said, his smile bleeding through to his voice. “Sure, Red.”

  
***

 

   Frank liked to keep his personal life and work life separate nowadays. It was strange, saying he had a personal life now, one that didn’t involve shooting or punching or beating. One that revolved primarily around Matt Murdock, of all people, who he made a point to keep far from the Punisher while remaining close to Frank Castle. They didn’t mesh, professionally. That wasn’t to say that if he saw Daredevil in a sticky situation he wouldn’t help him, but Matt had long stopped shadowing Frank on missions. They only worked together if they had to, and even then it was a rare and reluctant affair.

   They both learned that it was better this way. That they got along better, this way.

   Frank kept his usual routine: he slept most of the day, did recon in the afternoons, and cleaned the scum out of Hell’s Kitchen a few hours after nightfall. In between, he made time to check up on Max, feed him, walk him, and occasionally visit Matt. Sometimes they had breakfast together, sometimes it was dinner, and sometimes it was a quick handjob in the shower before they collapsed in bed, sated and exhausted and the closest to happy Frank thought he would ever come to again in this life. Sometimes Frank stayed the night.

**Author's Note:**

> The title's from [this song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OB2biYhWx80)


End file.
